


Twenty-Two Next Friday

by StarsAndStitches



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Illustrated, John's jumper, Memories, Mycroft Plays the Piano, Not Canon Compliant after series 2, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Season/Series 02, Sherlock's Violin, Swearing, and there is tea of course, graphic (but not gratuitous) descriptions of breathing, my beta and I agreed to include that tag for the pure silliness of it, my own artwork, or at least he used to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-08 04:33:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11074140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarsAndStitches/pseuds/StarsAndStitches
Summary: Nearly two years after Sherlock jumped, John is still struggling to cope with his best friend's death. One afternoon he receives an unexpected invitation...From chapter 2:“You're playing?” John asked as pleasantly as he could manage, jerking his head towards the piano.“On a pitifully amateurish level of proficiency, I'm afraid.” Mycroft slid over to the instrument and closed the fallboard with a slow, poignant movement. “My obligations rarely allow me to indulge in such pastimes.” His gaze dropped to the lacquered wood, the tips of his long fingers lingered a moment.“It used to be our mother's in the first place.” Blue-grey eyes focused onto the guest again. “She liked to entertain her friends here for tea. And my brother or I were frequently... ah, requested to perform on those occasions. Even duets sometimes.”The boy with the dark curls who had slid down the banister moments ago was now standing next to the grand piano, violin tucked under his chin and a sullen look on his face, whilst his ginger teenage brother at the keys did his best to look blasé. “Let me guess,” John could not help smirking, “you both hated it.”“A perfectly valid deduction, Doctor.”





	1. Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I only own the plot of this story. The characters and plot of “Sherlock” belong to the BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. And humankind is forever indebted to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for conceiving Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> I am rather new to writing fan-fiction, and English is not my first language, so please be kind!
> 
> This story was beta-read and brit-picked by the magnificent [TheSoupDragon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSoupDragon/pseuds/TheSoupDragon), my wonderful expert for English languange – including particularly peculiar pieces of punctuation – and British life style. Thank you so much for everything!  
> She has been a fantastic godmother to this story, without her it would not be the same. Please, go read her stories – they are great, and funny! All remaining errors are my own, of course.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always welcome and appreciated.  
> Enjoy reading! :)
> 
> The illustrations for this story are my own work. They must not be posted or published elsewhere or included into any other works without my explicit written permission. Thanks!

 

 

Spring had come late to London this year. A cold and rainy April had turned into a gusty May, and still there was little hint of warmth in the air. When John left the surgery around four in the afternoon he felt the wind crisp on his face and shuddered slightly. He was glad he had a jumper on underneath his jacket; the oatmeal cabled one, his favourite. The one he had worn on his first evening with Sh– a sharp intake of breath – with Sherlock. _Yes, you can think his name without arrhythmia. You can do that, Watson!_

He ducked his head and hurried towards the tube station. If he were lucky he would be at his flat in forty minutes. His flat. Not home, never home. Home... that would forever be 221B Baker Street. His home with _him_ , with Sherlock. The flat where two people had lived their life together and that had slowly been turning into a mausoleum for more than twenty-one months now. Twenty-one months, two weeks, five days, John knew without thinking. Twenty-two next Friday.

He had to stop. Suddenly there was  not enough air around him, not enough to draw into his lungs, to keep him going. His chest felt squeezed tight, his vision narrowed. His hand flung out sideways to steady him on a lamppost.  _Not good, fainting in the middle of a busy street_ . John took a few slow breaths ignoring the curious eyes of the passers-by.  Inhale – exhale. Once more. Better. 

Without wanting to, his thoughts flew back to his former home again. He had tried to stay. God knows he had tried. Fighting to clear his best friend's reputation. Demonstrating his stalwart loyalty.  _I believe in Sherlock Holmes_ . Keeping a stiff upper lip and somehow holding on. Waking almost every night from his own screams, with a name heavy in his throat and shrill in his ears. Images of a broken bloody body on a pavement etched into his retinae. Tons of  _Why'_ s and  _What if'_ s and  _I should have'_ s wreaking havoc in his mind. Some wild crazy fantasies in the back of his heart that some day he would wake up and it would turn out to be nothing but a horrible nightmare. That his flatmate would stop being dead and waltz back into his life, explaining it all away with a nonchalant grin and a dismissive wave of his hand.  _One more miracle, Sherlock, for me_ . Please!

But with every passing week it had become harder to carry on. Not for the financial aspect, no, Mycroft had wordlessly taken over half of the rent. Still, the lingering smells of formaldehyde and other chemicals, of incredibly expensive toiletries, of leftover takeaway and nicotine had faded away eventually. And dust had gathered thickly on the remnants of their life here, despite not-their-housekeeper's best efforts. The last echoes of their arguments and their shared laughter, of experiments failing spectacularly – complete with curses under one's breath – of Sherlock's music and John's slow typing had inevitably died down. The only sounds in the house being Mrs. Hudson's muffled sobs and the white noise from the telly John had kept on in order to not have to hear them. Sadness and despair had settled on 221B like mildew, looking suspiciously like the amber dregs at the bottom of a whisky glass. Fresh nightmares lurked on the inside of his leaden eyelids.

Sharing the living room with the violin had been the most painful part. Many times John had opened the instrument case, had looked at the beauty in its velvet bed and ran his fingers over the strings. Imagining he could sense the spectre of longer slimmer fingers, the fingers that belonged there. And when heavy tears had fallen onto the varnish of the Stradivarius' body he had known he had to go. To escape the suffocating stillness, to turn away from Mrs. Hudson's always tearful eyes. The mildew had slowly overgrown everything that used to be good and exciting and joyful. If he had stayed any longer the cobwebs of a withered life would have entangled him, tied him to his armchair amidst books and sheet music and half-empty tea mugs like an Egyptian mummy.

With a jerk, John forced himself back to the here and now. It was no use dwelling on painful memories that made his inside ache with misery and regret and guilt. Not for the first time he wondered what the flat might look like now. Had Mrs. H found new tenants? Would she even like to have new ones? Or did Mycroft still pay the rent for a flat that had become as lifeless as a tomb?  _No, certainly not. Not Mycroft_ fucking _Holmes! What for? That would be sentiment and therefore, a defect._

A quick glance at his phone told him that several minutes had passed. Minutes during which he had tantalised himself with images of Baker Street. _You are an idiot_ , Sherlock's voice rang in his head. True. John propelled himself forward again. He really had to hurry now, he had a schedule for tonight after all. A short mirthless laugh escaped his throat. Wasn't it weird? After months and months where nothing had happened to him and every day had been as grey and dull as the one before, he suddenly had plans. In a few hours time he would meet with Mary Morstan, for their second date.

Just two blocks away from the tube station he noticed the car. The sleek black vehicle with its tinted windows looked conspicuously inconspicuous among bulky cabs and colourful vans. It passed him and came to a stop a few steps ahead, and the back door opened a crack. John had no doubt that it was for him. _Mycroft! That bastard!_ His first impulse was to slam the door shut and speed on to the station. Bile was welling up his throat and with it came a sudden resolve. _Not now, Holmes! Not today! Not ever!_ He was so sick of the elder Holmes' meddling and manipulations. This had to end, once and for all, and this was an opportunity as good as any. It wouldn't take long either. A well-placed punch into Mycroft's arrogant snooty face, a few forceful words to underline that he did not want to have anything to do with that scheming arse anymore, and he would be free of him for good. He clenched his fists and readied himself for battle.

But when John yanked the car door open he did not face cold blue-grey eyes and a condescending fake smile. Instead the beautiful dark-haired woman who had once introduced herself as Anthea looked up from her mobile and smiled rather convincingly. “Good afternoon, Dr. Watson.”

The unexpected sight rattled him. “Good afternoon,” he replied, feeling winded.

Mycroft's aide deepened her smile. “Mr. Holmes sends his sincerest regards,” she drawled. “He would like to ask you for the pleasure of your company for tea.”

“Oh, would he?” John's anger returned, making him snappish.

Probably-not-Anthea nodded slowly and patted the seat next to her. “Will you please join me, John?”

_Oh, suddenly she knows my first name and makes eyes at me. Brilliant!_

“Mr. Holmes assured me that you will probably find it very worth your time,” she concluded suavely.

John snorted and cleared his throat. Very well. He was about to have some serious words with Mycroft anyway. It didn't matter whether it was here or somewhere else. And as he climbed into the car and buckled up he felt determination settle in his stomach; he would burn his bridges with Sherlock's brother today. The sleek car joined the flow of traffic seamlessly.

John Watson, as a rule, could not bear Mycroft Holmes. His pompous demeanour, his scathing remarks and his air of haughty superiority. Hearing the tip of his umbrella clicking on the steps of 221B usually made John's hair stand on end. If Mycroft hadn't been Sherlock's brother he would not have tolerated that twat in his home.

What riled him most was the fact his best friend, more often than not, was in a foul mood after having dealt with his brother. Irritable, dejected, belligerent, moping, snappish, annoyed, brooding, petulant, prone to smash something, you name it. The way Mycroft belittled and disapproved of nearly everything Sherlock did. Made him feel bad and inadequate when he failed to become as cold and detached as his elder sibling. When he instead showed how much more human he was. Enthusiastic and passionate and – yes – kind, and in need of a few other people at least that he trusted and cared about. Things John really loved – _liked_ very much about his flatmate. Weaknesses in Mycroft's opinion. Something to be avoided at all costs. _'Caring is not an advantage', my arse!_ And Sherlock fighting back, rebelling, with everything he'd got in his armoury. With snarky remarks about eating habits, with scowls, glares, sneers, exasperated eye-rolling and angry noises from a certain violin.

And most certainly John could not forgive Mycroft for betraying his brother to his worst enemy. Betrayal. There was simply no other word for it. If the elder Holmes had not traded private information… John clenched his fists and had to shut his eyes. Sherlock would not have fallen victim to Moriarty's web of lies so quickly and so deeply. He might have been able to resist the venom. Hell, he might still be alive! A mountain of bitter reproach. John drew a long shaky breath. No, Mycroft Holmes was definitely not his favourite kind of person.

Thankfully he had not seen much of the government official lately. Hardly more than a quarter of an hour at a time since the funeral. The funeral! Suddenly John was back in that little chapel, standing next to an ebony coffin brimming over with much too fragrant flowers, giving his eulogy. Whilst he had struggled to get the words out from the bottom of his heart, words that had to be said but were painful on his tongue nevertheless, his eyes had sought out the people in the front row. On one side of the aisle there had sat Mrs. Hudson drenched in tears, sobbing anew with each phrase John had wrung from his parched constricted throat. Molly Hooper beside her, had put an arm firmly around the older woman's shaking shoulders, doing her best to console her. And Greg Lestrade in a somewhat threadbare black suit, looking utterly devastated, had hidden his face in his hands. Compare that to the three people on the other side of the aisle: Mycroft and his parents, all three sitting very stiffly, looking unperturbed and aloof in the face of this tragedy. All self-control and not a whiff of emotion, of grief or despair on their faces. Sherlock's mum had been wearing a black veil, and John had suspected it was not to hide any tears but the fact that she had none. _Damn those bloody upper-class tight-arsed...!_ As if it was a remote acquaintance lying there in the black wooden box and not a beloved family member, a son and a brother. And when he had shaken their hands afterwards it had felt as if _they_ were offering their condolences to _him_ instead of the other way round. Not even when the dark coffin had been lowered into that six-feet deep hole, taking John's heart down with it, had there been any sign that they cared at all. Good Lord Jesus! What had Sherlock ever done to deserve such a cold-hearted loveless family? _To Hell with them all!_ If John did not see any living member of the Holmes family ever again it would be too soon.

When he opened his eyes again and looked out of the window he frowned. “Wait. This is not the way to the Diogenes Club.”

“No, it's not,” maybe-or-maybe-not-Anthea confirmed.

“So, where then?” John couldn't help letting his annoyance show in his voice.

“Mr. Holmes looks forward to welcoming you in his home,” she announced.

“Oh.” His home? Surprise smothered the fire of his anger. Somehow he had never imagined Mycroft had a place he would call 'home' at all. That he would sleep and eat and live at the bloody club or some such thing. Thinking that he might actually have something like a private life was a bit unnerving.

The smooth movement of the car sent John into a melancholic mood. Deep in his heart he knew he would be grieving for Sherlock for the rest of his life. The relationship they had had was of a once-in-a-lifetime kind. Never before had he felt such a strong connection with somebody, neither lover nor friend. And he was sure he never would again. A bond had formed immediately when they looked deep into each other's eyes for the first time. And it had grown stronger and deeper with each case, with each quiet evening at home. Deeper than words. It didn't need words, this sense of togetherness, didn't need a label. Or so John had thought. Only now, after it was lost and gone forever, he deeply regretted that he had never found the courage to let Sherlock know how much he meant to him. Some simple truths John might have told him. _I miss you when you're gone. I need you. I need you to need me._ Maybe, just maybe, it would have been enough to keep his friend here. God, he had failed him so badly! 

The six-foot genius would define him for the remainder of his life. He had once been John Watson the soldier. He had been and was John Watson the doctor. And he had been and was and would ever be John Watson, Sherlock Holmes' best friend. He wanted to keep Sherlock in his mind forever, _his_ Sherlock. All the small memories of a shared life, all the private moments they had had together in their flat and out in the city they both loved, every honest smile and every little gesture of affection. Yes, and every fight about trivial things like milk, too! _His_ Sherlock.

On that day nearly twenty-two months ago something inside John's chest had turned from a warm, living thing into an ugly, hard, sharp-edged lump. Leaving him frozen in time and disconnected from the stream of life, where everybody else swirled and flowed around him like a river around an exceptionally obstructive boulder. 'Get over it!' people kept telling him, 'Let it go! It's not good to mourn a friend for so long. High time to move on.' But how could he do that? When with every tiny movement he tried that ragged spiky thing in his chest would scrape him raw inside and cut open a thousand small bleeding wounds.

And then Mary had come along, the new nurse at the surgery. Undoubtedly pretty and funny and clever and confident and outright lovely. And very determined to slowly, gingerly draw him back to the land of the living. Miraculously, she had taken a liking to him. To him, of all people! The broken man with the greying hair, the hollow eyes and the somewhat drooping moustache he had half-heartedly grown recently. Mary – his angel, his saviour.

Why should John not let her lead the way? Let yet another quick-witted, sharp-tongued person with keen eyes decide what they would be together. With Sherlock it had been the best and closest friendship he ever had and ever would have. And with Mary? He wasn't sure yet. On some level it didn't really matter. All he could have with her would pale against what he and Sherlock had had. A pleasant second choice at best. Someone to dispel the horrible loneliness that slowly ate him. All he could wish for now. Good enough.

Too numb and feeble to set a course, he felt content with her dragging him along. It seemed like Mary had all the determination needed for both of them. And when she decided they should be dating, he was fine with that, too. Even when John had talked about Sherlock for hours on their first date, she didn't slap him or run away. Instead, she stayed and listened patiently and understood. And wanted to go on with their relationship of sorts. She knew about that ugly scratching rock inside him and was not afraid of it. Which was nothing short of a miracle by itself.

And that was another reason John had decided to cut ties with Mycroft Holmes today. To bring things to a closure. To clear the air, make a fresh start. Get the chance to build something new with Mary. A small ordinary future perhaps, unperturbed by Holmesian interferences. He owed her that and so much more. And so, he would stow away the cherished memories of a life full of excitement and adventures, and a great friendship; it would become a secret treasure he could visit whenever the need would arise, all by himself. So his mind was set. For Mary, for himself and most of all for the Sherlock in his heart.

_Into battle then, Captain Watson!_

  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks a lot for reading! :)
> 
> This chapter was a bit on the pensive, melancholic side. But the next ones will have lots of dialogue, promise. Please stay tuned!


	2. Indication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all of you who read, kudosed (is that a verb?) and commented on the previous chapter! ♥︎ ♥ ♥︎ You are great!!!
> 
> There is an illustration at the end of this chapter.

Mycroft's home turned out to be a neat Edwardian townhouse in Hampstead. _How fitting_ , thought John grumpily. In the front garden, thick bushes with tiny buds promised an abundance of flowers for the summer. Were those hydrangeas? He wasn't sure, never much of a gardener.

Maybe-Anthea accompanied him up the few steps to the front door which opened promptly. Mycroft acknowledged his aide curtly and then turned to welcome his guest. “Good afternoon, Dr. Watson,” he said crisply with a strained smile, “so glad you could make it. Please do come in!” And he took a step back to let John enter.

“Mycroft,” John replied tersely, hands at his back. No handshake, just a sharp military nod. Two cautious hesitating steps into the house. Entering enemy territory.

“May I take your coat?” Mycroft held out a hand, ever the polite host. While John shrugged it off, he looked around the hallway to map the terrain. Tidy, pristine. Pastel colours. Vintage furniture. Looking a bit uninhabited. As if fresh from the pages of 'Ideal Home' magazine. A little smalltalk might be in order, though. “Lovely house you've got here.”

His host hummed in response. “Thank you. My family has had the good fortune to own this modest accommodation for quite some time. In the fourth generation now, I might add. I find myself rather partial to it.” And he took John's jacket to hang it up.

“What?” John asked, surprised. “You mean... this is... was... actually a family home?”

Mycroft nodded.

“You lived here? I mean... when you and Sh-Sherlock were kids?”

“During the winter months primarily. Unless we were away at school, of course. Though, as I am sure you can imagine, it did not look quite so... civilised with my brother around.” Mycroft's smile lost its contrived edge, grew softer, warmer, genuine. His eyes wandered off. _What does he see right now?_ John wondered with a pang in his chest. _A curly-haired boy running around these rooms, sliding down that banister or destroying some valuable heirloom with a little mishap from his chemistry set? Surely Sherlock must have done that, at least once or twice._

John cleared his throat to get back into focus. When he looked up at his host, he found him still reminiscent of times past. And there was more John hadn't noticed before. He had not seen Mycroft this close up for the better part of a year, and his doctor's eyes registered the differences at a glance. His bespoke three-piece suit, though impeccable as ever, hung more loosely than usual. His face had become gaunt, new fine lines had formed around the eyes and the mouth. Bluish shadows and bags under his eyes spoke of tormented sleepless nights. The first threads of grey had appeared in his naturally reddish hair. All in all, Mycroft looked distressed, haggard, easily five years older than his age. And John was sure this had nothing to do with a government crisis in Malaysia or trade treaty negotiations with Uruguay... no, this was personal. Deeply worried? About what? And why now? With the main source of his worries gone. Did this house with its memories plague him as much as Baker Street did John? Did he feel guilt? Shame, remorse, even grief? Did he finally realise what he had lost? _What is haunting you, Mycroft Holmes?_ The doctor in John could not help but feel compassion for someone so obviously suffering. In pain, not unlike himself. His determination to confront the man abated slowly. “Mycroft...” he started quietly, “what is it?”

But the elder Holmes brother quickly composed himself, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly embarrassed at being caught revelling in fond memories. “My apologies, Doctor. I must have been distracted momentarily.” He closed the cracks in the façade with practised ease, clinging to his manners like he used to cling to his umbrella. However, John was certain that for what could not have been more than a few seconds, he had caught a glimpse of the true Mycroft Holmes. Whether he would use it as a leverage against him or not... well, that remained to be seen. He straightened his jumper with a short tug at the hem and cleared his throat once more.

“Shall we, then?” Mycroft gestured to one of the doors, the polite smile back on his face. “Tea is ready, I believe.”

John was led into a bright reception room which was flooded with natural light from the large bay windows looking out onto the front garden. Creamy yellow walls and white furniture made it look sunny and serene. A cosy fire crackled in the small fireplace, with two armchairs placed invitingly in front of it. Some family photographs in heavy silver-plated frames were arranged on the mantel, and the large mirror in its ornate frame above it – probably worth several times John's monthly pay – added an air of spaciousness. Tall bookshelves lining the walls complemented an elegant sofa at the back of the room. The stuffed chairs and spindly-legged tables were of a matching style, not like the haphazard comfortable hotchpotch that John had lived in at 221B and missed dearly. _Quaint!_ a sarcastic Sherlock commented in his head.

The most striking piece in the room, however, was a grand piano towards the windows. An actual grand piano, white-lacquered, the fallboard flipped open. John's breath caught. There, on top of the closed piano lid lay an open violin case, the instrument leaning against it and the bow at the side. Sherlock's Strad, no doubt. He could even make out the faded initials 'SH' on the case. _Bloody hell!_ It looked for all the world as if the violinist had just paused playing, had casually left it there and was to return any second. His heart started pounding more vigorously, hands curled into tight-clenched fists. _For Christ's sake, Mycroft!_ He must have brought it over from Baker Street, for sure. And now, having it laying around here as mere decoration – that was... that was outrageous. Or did Mycroft keep it for a different reason? As a memento maybe? Something that cried out 'Sherlock' so loudly it drowned out your heartbeat. Did he need that? Did he sit here, contemplate the violin and sink into God knows what musings?

John slowly turned back to his host, concluding his assessment of the room. So this was going to be the battlefield. “You're playing?” he asked as pleasantly as he could manage, jerking his head towards the piano.

“On a pitifully amateurish level of proficiency, I'm afraid.” Mycroft slid over to the instrument and closed the fallboard with a slow, poignant movement. “My obligations rarely allow me to indulge in such pastimes.” His gaze dropped to the lacquered wood, the tips of his long fingers lingered a moment. _Christ! How did I not notice how much their hands look alike?_

“It used to be our mother's in the first place.” Blue-grey eyes briefly brushed the violin and focused onto the guest again. “She liked to entertain her friends here for tea. And my brother or I were frequently... ah, requested to perform on those occasions. Even duets sometimes.”

The boy with the dark curls who had slid down the banister moments ago was now standing next to the grand piano, violin tucked under his chin and a sullen look on his face, whilst his ginger teenage brother at the keys did his best to look blasé. “Let me guess,” John could not help smirking, “you both hated it.”

The corner of Mycroft's mouth twitched a bit. “A perfectly valid deduction, Doctor.” And he gestured to one of the armchairs. “But do take a seat, please!”

Whilst John settled into the offered chair – the left one – his host busied himself with the tea set. Bone china with an opulent floral design. “Am I informed correctly that you take it with a dash of milk?” John's eyes were drawn again to elegant hands, pouring the creamy liquid from the milk jug into a cup in a meticulous, measured manner. Seeing other hands pouring different liquids from one test tube into another in much the same way. _Stop it, Watson! Stop it right now! Get your wits together! You can't have yourself distracted with this every other moment. Need to focus. Got a battle to fight._

“Please help yourself to the biscuits,” Mycroft purred as he passed the cup.

“Thanks, Mycroft.”

When the first sip of the hot beverage – it wouldn't be drugged, would it? – ran down John's throat he didn't know whether to laugh or sob. _Good heavens!_ This tea. Was. Perfect. Simply perfect. Steeped exactly right, with just the right amount of milk, not too hot. Like the ones Sher– _oh fuck, not again_ – had surprised him with on occasion. Did this also run in the family, another Holmesian super-power? Brilliant deductive skills and making-the-perfect-tea-for-John-Watson. “Fantastic,” he sighed quietly and let the tea warm his belly. Another sip of perfection. Maybe it would be possible to survive this taxing afternoon.

Feeling a gaze upon him, John looked up and met Mycroft's ice-blue eyes scrutinising him above the rim of his tea cup. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat. Well, then. The older man lowered his cup and brushed some biscuit crumbs from his trousered thigh. “Are you aware, John,” he made his opening move, head tilted slightly, “that you are a man under surveillance?”

 _Ha! Just what I came here to talk about._ “Says the man on the other end of the CCTV lines,” retorted John.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Well, there's that. But you might be interested to learn that there are other parties involved who are... shall we say, not so benevolent.”

John huffed incredulously. “And who would that be?”

“An old adversary.” Sherlock's brother set down his tea cup on the side table and reached for another biscuit.

“But he's dead!” John's grip around the saucer tightened. “And what would he want of me? It was Sherlock he was after.”

“The man might be dead,” Mycroft drawled, leaning back into his chair again, “but those who do his bidding are very much alive. Still following orders. A skittish bunch, one may suppose. Looking out for any indication that matters are not what they appear to be. I am quite positive that they are watching us as we speak.”

“Oh come on, Mycroft! You can't be serious. That sounds a bit paranoid, even for you.”

“I assure you the danger is very real, John. Those... individuals would not refrain from lethal force. And not only against your esteemed person, Doctor. Others who are quite dear to you I assume are also in jeopardy. It would sadden me immensely should I hear of anything harmful befalling any of you.” Sherlock's brother took another swig from his cup and smacked his lips.

John's throat went dry, he swallowed. “Who else?” He narrowed his eyes.

His host hesitated for a moment, sending him a long probing glance. “A certain Detective Inspector from the Yard.” A long finger brushed a crumb from the corner of a mouth. “That charming former landlady of yours.”

Greg, Mrs. Hudson. John swallowed again. Suddenly he became aware how warm it was in the room. With the crackling fire, the warm tea in his belly and his jumper still on, it was definitely too hot. He gestured towards his own torso. “Mind if I...?”

“By all means, make yourself comfortable.” A gracious wave of permission.

With a quick movement John pulled the jumper over his head, folded it neatly – soldier's habits – and laid it onto the armrest. Running a hand over his hair and straightening his shirt. A short moment to gather his thoughts. Another mouthful of Perfect-For-John-Watson-Tea. “Why?” he continued, “Why would anyone...? I don't understand. Me? Mrs. Hudson? I mean... we're not important.”

“Sadly I am not at liberty to divulge more about this matter at the moment. But your questions will be answered soon if you kindly extend your stay.” Mycroft leaned forward and rested his elbows on his thighs, his gaze intent on John. “I cannot emphasise enough how crucial it is that we do not give reason to suspect that this is anything other than two friends chatting amiably over tea.”

“As if you and I have ever been friends,” John huffed into his cup.

“Be that as it may.” The other man sighed. “If you agree to proceed, John, we will shortly be joined by someone else. Whose presence must not be noticed under any circumstances.”

John looked up in surprise. “Somebody else? Who?”

“An acquaintance of mine who urgently wants to talk to you.”

Now John felt the impulse to roll his eyes. “Come off it, Mycroft! If you want me to believe in this cloak-and-dagger story you must give me more. Stop being so damned cryptic!” He emptied his tea cup and set it down a little bit too forcefully. Anger stirred in his stomach.

“The delicacy of the situation requires the utmost caution. I am afraid I must ask for your full cooperation in this matter. Can you do that, John? Can you uphold the impression of us being alone in this room regardless of what will unfold? For the safety of everybody involved.” Mycroft had folded his hands under his chin and now looked at him attentively. Demanding, intense, trying to read some truth from John's face. A familiar sight. _For God's sake! They are brothers, of course there will be similarities._

John took a slow breath and pursed his lips. “So... let me see if I've got this right. You are trying to convince me that there are some baddies crawling through your hydrangea bushes outside? Who threaten to do some bad things to Greg Lestrade or Mrs. Hudson or myself? For whatever dubious reason?”

“Yes, that is essentially correct.” Mycroft nodded gravely.

“And these lurkers will get terribly upset if they see your guest? So that they stop lurking and start shooting?”

“Exactly.”

“Correct me if I'm wrong here, but I thought your... er, people were supposed to prevent such things.”

“While I am perfectly capable of ensuring your well-being as long as you stay under this roof, it might prove impossible to extend the necessary level of protection to several people over a prolonged period of time. Trust me, the best precaution would be not to raise any inappropriate suspicions in the first place.”

“And we couldn't just... you know, close the curtains?”

“As my brother assures me, you are a reasonably intelligent man...”

John bristled. _Reasonably intelligent, really!_

“... and a trained army officer besides,” Mycroft continued fluidly, “so you will clearly be able to discern that this is not about concealing something. It is about demonstrating in the most blatant way that there is nothing to hide.” He stood and grabbed the teapot. “But where are my manners? Please allow me to refill your cup. And do give these biscuits a try. They are positively delicious.”

 _God, is he losing it?_ John suddenly wondered. Did all this Sherlock-ness around drive him over the edge? Would grief and self-reproach crack even the most disciplined mind? Make him imagine deadly foes behind each bush and suspect sinister conspiracies everywhere? John sought out Sherlock's brother's eyes, looking for any sign of instability, whilst said brother refilled both their cups. Nervous, anxious, even a bit desperate – yes. But also clear and keen and utterly determined. Trying to convey something important. Not the eyes of a madman.

So... this danger Mycroft spoke about might actually be real. John took a long steadying breath. A calmness descended on him, quieting his nerves and setting each fibre on high alert at the same time. A familiar tickling in his cerebellum running up and down his spine. Not unpleasant, to be honest. Hadn't felt it for far too long. Battle time, then. Though not the battle he had expected when he came here. “Alright,” he heard himself say, “I'm in. You know, I was a soldier once, Mycroft. Not easily scared.” He took the refilled cup that Mycroft offered him.

“Never thought you were,” his host conceded with a smile. “Contrary to what you might believe I always appreciated my brother's choice in his... companion. However, I'm afraid I must insist on having your word on it, John. As the man of honour I know you are.”

“You have it.” Curiosity clawed at the back of his mind. “I promise I will follow through with this charade and meet your visitor.” He took a long thoughtful swig of tea and smacked his lips.

“Excellent. Thank you.” Mycroft sighed with relief and closed his eyes briefly. “I would suggest that you remain seated in your chair for the rest of your stay. No rash movements. Please direct your attention in this direction only. Onto me, the fire or the mirror. Calm and casual.”

“So...” John felt compelled to take the initiative, “this acquaintance you mentioned...” He cleared his throat. “You trust them?”

“With my life,” his host answered immediately. The unexpected sincerity in the short statement made John prick up his ears. _And with mine too, obviously._

“I have known him for almost my whole life,” Mycroft added quietly, dropping his glance into his cup.

“A childhood friend then?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Who wants something from me? Something important enough to put –” and he air-quoted, “– 'everybody involved' in danger?”

Mycroft swallowed. “I found I could not deny him his wishes in this matter.” Another biscuit was snatched from the plate.

 _Oh_ , John suddenly knew, _he is going to recruit me, isn't he?_ He or his playmate wanted him to join MI6 or some such. Or this so-called friend held something over Mycroft and had blackmailed him into this bizarre play. Who knows? It all fitted. All these allusions to Sherlock the whole time. Just to rub in John's face what he had lost. Nothing left that mattered anymore. A broken lonely man with no reason to stay, no worthwhile future. Might as well grab his gun and his 'reasonable intelligence' and get him to play spy for them. Appeal to his soldier's honour and his taste for adventure. Add a splash of mortal peril into this hare-brained setup. Et voilà, the perfect bait for John Watson. _Fucking manipulative bastard!_

“And what would he like to talk about?” he asked cautiously, licking his lips.

Mycroft's eyes darted over to the grand piano by the window. And the violin on top of it. Sherlock then, of course!

“As this meeting must be rather brief,” Mycroft replied, sidestepping the question, “I would like to suggest that we do not waste any more valuable time. Please remember to keep calm, John. It is of the utmost importance. There is nobody in this room besides you and I. A casual chat over tea. For my brother–”

Something white-hot flared in John's chest. “Sherlock!” he hissed through gritted teeth. “His name is Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock! Can't you say it? All the time you're trying to put me off-guard with memories about him… and the violin and the tea. Bit surprised you didn't drape his coat over the sofa there! And yet you cannot speak his name just once. Twenty-two months next Friday and you are still afraid of saying it aloud. Never took you for such a coward, Mycroft!”

Mycroft flinched visibly, gaping at the sudden change of his guest's mood. And John had reached a decision. “You know what?” he continued hotly, “I am out of it. I am not interested in talking to your sodding playground mate. I don't give a fuck what he wants to tell me about Sherlock. No! Just no! If he is going to share some oh-so-important dark secret from Sherlock's past he can bloody well keep it. Since Sherlock can't tell me himself I won't hear it. I don't need it! I already know everything about him I need to know. I know he's... _was_ the most extraordinary, brilliant person I ever met, and nothing you or your mystery friend says is ever going to change that. Just bloody shut up, Mycroft Holmes! I am done with this! The tea party is over.” After a long uneven breath he reached for his jumper on the armrest and continued more calmly. “Thank you for the tea, by the way! It was really excellent.” And he slowly stood.

“No, John! Don't go!” a hoarse voice called out from behind him. A voice he had thought he would never hear again.

John's knees buckled and he sank back into the armchair.

 

 

 


	3. Intersection

“This is not the procedure we agreed upon!” Mycroft hissed, his words directed somewhere above John's right shoulder.

“That's hardly my fault!” came a heated reply. “You're the one who mucked it up, dear brother! You were driving him away!” Ragged quick breaths punctuated the words.

John himself could only sit and stare ahead, his mouth agape. His brain refused to comprehend what he saw reflected in the mirror above the mantelpiece. _It's not possible. Just. Not. Possible_.

Over there, behind him, in a corner wedged between a tall bookshelf and the half-open door – well-sheltered from prying eyes – was a figure half-hidden behind a dark curtain. A pale face peering back at him, familiar and yet different. Sherlock.

“Don't turn around, Doctor,” Mycroft's voice drifted into his ears from far away, low and urgent. “And remain seated.”

John couldn't have moved even if he had wanted to. His head was buzzing, his limbs had gone numb and refused to obey him, his heartbeat pounded in his ears, filling him with white noise. Eyes and brain frantically struggled to make sense of the sight. The face in the mirror.

Bright kaleidoscope eyes drilled into his own from deep in their sockets, blue-green-grey-whatever, just like he remembered them. Dark circles under the eyes, standing out against unhealthy pale skin. Cheekbones more prominent than ever, haggard cheeks covered with a dark, coarse stubble. Lips rough and cracked, a small scabby cut in the bottom lip. Dark, lacklustre curls, matted and longer than they used to be, coming down over the ears and the neck. A fading bruise on his right cheekbone, a sickly brownish patch. And some injury above the left eyebrow, neatly covered by a plaster, almost hidden beneath the avalanche of tangled hair. God, he looked awful. John forced a gulp of air into his lungs.

“ _Sherlock_.” The name dropped from his mouth like a heavy iron ball, tumbled sluggishly across the floor towards the corner with the curtain and came to rest at the feet of the man it belonged to.

“ _John_ ,” a whisper answered, rough and drawn out, raising the hair on John's neck.

“Are you... is it... real? But you're...” _It can't be. Impossible._

“Yes, John! It's me, it's really me! I'm here.” Low and insistent. The man in the corner took a shuddering breath. “Short version: not dead.” He made a feeble attempt to smile. And failed miserably.

John had to close his eyes for a second. It was too much; crushing, shattering. _Jesus! What the fuck? No! Yes! Bloody fucking hell, how?_ His left hand shook fiercely, rattling the tea cup. He had to set it down onto the side table. His fingers clawed tightly into the soft woollen fabric of his jumper on the armrest.

Someone cleared their throat. Mycroft's figure came into view, standing, the empty teapot in his hands.

“It grieves me that I cannot give you more than a few minutes of privacy,” he announced smoothly and strode graciously towards the door. “I advise that you put them to good use. Please stay where you are, both of you. You know the stakes are very high.” As he reached the door he shot a quick glance to the corner and then half-turned back to his guest in the armchair. “You're alone in the room now, John. Don't forget that.” And with a weighty nod he left the room. “I'll knock.”

As soon as his brother was out of earshot words sputtered breathlessly out of Sherlock's mouth, obviously rehearsed. “I'm so sorry, John. My... my actions were... nothing less than horrific and may have appeared cruel and callous. I'm aware that I caused you much pain. And for that I'm… more sorry than I can ever put into words. My friend.” A hoarse gasp; he probably hadn't talked that much for some time.

“Please believe me, it was absolutely necessary and not of my own volition. I would never... have done that if there had been any other option. John, I... I did not intend to hurt you so much. Or anyone for that matter. Please accept my sincerest apologies!” Another pained breath. “And I very much hope... that you can forgive me and... and that you still allow me to call you my friend. My best friend.” His speech faltered, strayed off course. “What I did... I had to do it… believe me... I didn't expect... no other way... so very sorry. Please, believe me! I never meant... I didn't know that you... Please John... forgive me...” His voice broke on the last words, and he shuddered violently. Turning his gaze upwards to the ceiling, he slumped against the bookshelf, panting.

A myriad questions whirled through John's mind. How? Where? Who? Chasing and stumbling one over the other, eager to be asked. “Why?” was the one he finally managed, his own voice sounding hollow in his ears.

“I had to!” Sherlock told the ceiling, struggling to catch his breath. He purposefully lowered his glance to the mirror, searching for his friend's eyes. “I had to,” he repeated more calmly, “Mori- Moriarty forced me. He had snipers targeting you. And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. They would've...” he squeezed his eyes shut, “… they would've killed you if I hadn't... died. I could not let that happen.” A couple of unsteady breaths, groping for countenance and eloquence.

“It was a simple deal really. My life in exchange for yours. Plain as that. Ridiculously simple when you think of it. As if there ever could be a choice. My own wretched, pathetic life for the well-being of three of the... best people I ever met. Who had done nothing wrong besides... being associated with me. No choice actually. No choice at all.” Sherlock's voice had become more determined now as he gathered his thoughts.

“I... I wholeheartedly apologise for the... pain I caused you. And if... if you can't forgive me... don't want to see me or speak to me any more... then I'll accept it as my punishment. But I'll have you know... if I had to do it again... if this is what it takes... to keep you... to save your life, I would do it again... without hesitation.”

“And you couldn't have told me?!” Now that the first shock was ebbing away a hot bubble of anger burgeoned. “Christ, Sherlock! We could've figured something out! Together. You always figure something out. Something clever. You're a bloody genius!” John's voice trailed off. “And we could have faced this shit together. As we always did. Damn it!”

His friend shook his head sadly. “Not this time, John. There was simply no other way. I tried to tell you. In a way. 'Just a magic trick', remember? Hoped you might figure it out later.” He wheezed as a fresh wave of misery shook him. “John, I never... never wanted to hurt you so badly. But it had to be... convincing, you see. Authentic. You had to believe it so that they believed it. Oh God!” Eyes closed, Adam's apple bobbing frantically, a large hand covering his mouth. The curtain had fallen to the side a bit and revealed that he was wearing an old washed-out t-shirt and baggy tracksuit bottoms.

“Sherlock,” John demanded, his tone dangerously low. “Sherlock, look at me!” And when their eyes found each other again in the mirror, he growled, “Do you have any idea what... ? How could you do that to me? Hell, you let me believe... you let me _grieve_ for you! All this fucking time! And not just me. Greg nearly lost his job, and Mrs Hudson's inconsolable. She loves you like a son. And you... you killed me, Sherlock! Do you know that?! You crushed me, threw me into Hell. For Heaven's sake, you made me watch! You made me bloody watch it! How could you, really?! You utter... fucking...”

A rasping sound somewhere between a cry and a sob came from the corner. “You were not supposed to be there! I sent you away, remember? Lest you have to witness it or try to interfere. But you came back too soon. I didn't want to... I'd rather not have had you to see that... to do that to you... never, never... but I couldn't tell you right away it was all fake... you had to believe it at that time... otherwise you would've come after me... trying to find me –”

“Oh yeah, you bet I would!”

“– and you would have been killed!!! You, and Mrs. H, and Gerald!”

“ _Greg!_ ” John corrected out of habit. If nothing else, this mistake convinced him that it was really Sherlock over there. Who else wouldn't know the first name of somebody they apparently committed suicide for?

Both men fell silent for a few moments, each breathing deeply on his own. John couldn't come up with anything to say. Hell, he didn't even know what to think or feel. So it was Sherlock who first spoke up again, almost a whisper. “That was the most dreadful part of it... lying to you... hurting you. The last thing in the world I wanted.” He hung his head, exhausted and drained. “I know I can probably never apologise enough for that. John. I am so sorry. A thousand times sorry. Forgive me! Please, John!” Another pained breath. “I never expected it to take so long. Destroy Moriarty's organisation. Ensure that you were safe...” He looked up again, dropped his head back against the bookshelf. Words poured hesitantly into the silent room. “A few months, I estimated. And it would all be over, you would be safe and I could return home." He swallowed. "It turned out I grossly miscalculated. I am sorry for that, too. So many times... wanted to let you know... but couldn't risk... They would've noticed. His web is so vast, John, and adaptable. So intricate. I had no idea. Stupid! Each node I bring down... every branch I cut... they change, relocate, reorganise. It's maddening! And now, it's almost two years. And still not over.” John saw him clench his fists, pain and desperation washing over his face. “My insufferable brother told you the truth, they still keep tabs on you, John...” Another muffled sound. And he averted his gaze again, blinking rapidly. A fist banged at the bookshelf repeatedly. “Still! Still! Still!”

John took a few slow breaths, trying to process. _Oh bloody hell!_ He unfurled his own fists, deliberately fighting the tremor. It was Sherlock, actually _Sherlock_ , standing there just a few feet away! The man he had missed and grieved for for nearly twenty-two months. And here he was nailed to this blasted chair. When all he wanted to do was jump up and dash over there and – and do what? Touch him? Hug him? Slap him? All of it, probably, and more. Take his pulse. Feel for himself that his friend was real. A warm, breathing _living_ human being! Sherlock, his Sherlock, alive! His wildest hopes come true. He had to close his eyes again, his own heartbeat threatening to blow his ribcage.

“Sh-Sherlock.” Soft and tentative now, not quite able to believe. How stunning to say his name again and know it reached the man himself. Not just an empty chair, a cold tombstone or a dying flat.

“Make a wish, John,” the baritone voice sounded low and throaty.

“Wh-what?”

“A wish. Something I can do for you now. To make things better.”

 _Play for me!_ was John's first thought. _Grab that damned violin and play! Like you did before... when the nightmares came._ But that was impossible, of course. He would be seen. Much too risky. And then John knew. A half-hidden face and a voice were not enough, not nearly enough. He needed more. Something more tangible, more substantial. “I... ah, could you... I need you... umm, let me see you, I mean... I need to see more of you. Please.” He ran his right hand over his face slowly. _God, that sounds awkward._

Soft rustling of fabric behind him. “Like this?”

When he looked at the mirror again, John found that his friend had manoeuvred in front of the curtain, had dropped his trousers to his ankles and pulled off the t-shirt. Sherlock, just in his boxer briefs, his eyes both pleading and defiant. He stood very still and looked straight ahead to the mirror. “Sherlock,” John mumbled again, tasting the sound of the name once more.

“Take your fill, John Watson,” Sherlock told him quietly, “take your fill of me.”

And John did. He took in the figure as much as the mirror allowed. His best friend had always been slim but was downright skinny now. His ribs were protruding visibly, and a large nasty-looking bruise sprawled over the lower right side of his ribcage, the blue-green-olive hues an ugly contrast to the pale skin. Had to be from a blunt blow or a fall, fairly recent. Contusion, then? Or even broken ribs? A laceration in his left upper arm, sutured some months ago, from the look of it. A knife wound? Minor injuries all over him as well, thoroughly cleaned and plastered, as well as bruises and abrasions. _Hell, Sherlock, what happened to you?_ “Sherlock, what...” he began but the words stuck around a thick lump in his throat. Suddenly he didn't see a collection of injuries anymore but the man beneath them. He saw saw the ramrod straight posture, the slow, laboured breathing, the trembling, the pain. This was his flatmate, a man who had spent an insane amount of money on toiletries and had groomed himself in the bathroom for hours, now turned scruffy and battered and weary. The sight clenched John's heart. What had the last twenty-two months had been like for him?

Never before had John seen him like this, exposed and vulnerable and raw. Cautiously and attentively, he let his eyes run over the details of Sherlock's body, examining it, memorising it. As a doctor and a friend. _It should be my hands doing that, not my eyes._ Touching him, taking care of him, making him feel better. Just a little bit. Let him feel the simple magic of a comforting touch. Give him a little space and time to heal, physically... and otherwise. His hands were desperately itching for it. Could Sherlock deduce that? How he longed to do more than just look at him? He hoped so. It would have to suffice, though – for now.

Finally, John's gaze drifted up to Sherlock's face. Their eyes met, and John found he could not look away again. Those wonderful pale eyes, slightly shimmering now. Like the English sky on a bright windy day with a chance of rain. His haven, his home. Jesus! He had not dared to hope to ever see them again. And yet here they were, looking right back at him. _Sherlock_ looking right back at him! His full attention on him, like he was the only thing in the universe right now worth beholding. “John...”

“Sherlock...” Just saying his name felt incredible. A gift. His name, unique and immensely precious to John, like the extraordinary man himself. John wished the moment could last forever.

It did not, however. The discreet clearing of a throat and a soft knock on the door announced Mycroft's return all too soon. Whilst the elder brother glided back into the room with a quick side glance towards the bookshelf, a full teapot and a fresh plate of biscuits in his hands, Sherlock hastily pulled up his trousers and put his t-shirt back on.

“I have located a packet of Rich Tea, John, if you would prefer those?” Mycroft put down the biscuits and refilled the cups adroitly, allowing his guest to get back into the present. “Maybe you have some questions left we might be able to help you with?” He arched an eyebrow enquiringly and took his seat again.

John cleared his throat. Yes, he definitely had questions. “Who, er, who did you...?”

Sherlock immediately understood what he meant. Who had known? “Mycroft, of course...” he began slowly.

John huffed at that.

“... our parents...”

“Well, that explains something,” John mumbled irritatedly and took a sip of his tea. Strangely it didn't taste as good as the first cup.

“Ah yes,” Mycroft interjected haughtily, “in hindsight it might have been more prudent if they had not attended... that occasion. Clearly they are not the most accomplished of actors.”

“Who else?”

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock continued, “and a score of my homeless network. That's all.”

“ _Molly??_ You let her in on it? But not me?” A fresh wave of anger rushed through John's veins. “You trust her more than me?? I _can_ keep a secret you know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, John. Of course I trust you more! That's not the point. Actually, I trust both of you very much, come to think of it.”

“Fortunately for Dr. Hooper,” his brother set out to explain, “James Moriarty was unaware of her... connection to Sherlock. So we could employ her to assist with the various contingency scenarios we concocted. A task she mastered quite skilfully, I might add.”

“She was not a target John, _you_ were – and still are. You're under close scrutiny all the time. And you're a poor liar, we all know that. So it seemed highly probable that you would have given it away – unintentionally, of course. Not so with Molly. They thought she was irrelevant. Didn't count. They don't watch her.” Sherlock let out a deep breath. “Big mistake on their part.”

“Alright,” John conceded grudgingly. _Poor liar, my arse!_ As if they had not intruded into a top-secret military research facility together in Baskerville! Another gulp of tea to calm his nerves. “It's just... quite a bit to take in, you know. In half an hour.” A heartbeat of silence. “Does she know you're back then?” he asked, tetchily.

“I'm not back. Not really.”

“Wh-What?!” He almost jumped up from his chair.

“This is a short visit John, not a home-coming. Do try to keep up, please! The danger is not over. There is one last mission I must complete.” Sherlock took a moment to focus while John stared at him incredulously.

Mycroft chimed in. “You see, Moriarty's web is by no means easy to dismantle. Thanks to the information he disclosed in exchange for the data of a... more personal nature that he desired, we were able to establish a foothold in his organisation and expand from there.” John only half-listened as he droned on about the many local cells of the criminal network, their global interconnectedness, infighting among branches and the brothers' strategy to isolate and eradicate them one by one. “... divide and conquer, so to speak. I may well assert that Sherlock – with the not entirely official aid of... some local specialists in Her Majesty's service – was tremendously successful with this approach during the past two years.” Mycroft smiled smugly and reached for his cup.

“There is only one major branch left as far as we know,” his sibling continued. “In continental Europe, their last bastion. I'll have to go undercover and infiltrate them. Hence this scruffy appearance.” He sighed.

“Exactly. We have to act quickly before they regain their strength. Time is of the essence, every day counts. They're in disarray now, trying to recuperate and gathering the severed threads. One swift decisive blow can bring them down for good. This is why my brother has to go there soon.” A gleam of steel flashed in the spymaster's eyes. “And once they're dealt with, the remnants of the network will deteriorate rapidly. And then we can go against the last of Moriarty's agents here in Britain as well.”

Anxiety clenched John's throat. “How soon?”

“I'll leave after sunset.” Another deep breath. Tired and slightly subdued.

“What? No!” John protested. “You can't! That's too soon. You just arrived, didn't you?”

“As much as everyone would wish to the contrary he cannot linger. The window of opportunity is rather small. We cannot afford to let it pass. Hesitating would jeopardise previous achievements and it would take much more time to ultimately prevail.”

“Then... then send somebody else! You must have dozens of agents, Mycroft. They can –”

Mycroft shook his head. “I'm afraid that's not possible, John.” His expression turned very serious as he looked his guest straight in the eyes. “This entire operation is not even remotely official, it's Sherlock's endeavour from start to finish. He would not have it any other way. And he is uniquely qualified for it, in equal measure knowledgeable and capable and... well, personally motivated. His mind is presumably the most extensive resource on Moriarty's organisation in existence –”

“I am _right_ here you know, brother dear.” Although his tone sounded grumbling, Sherlock's cheeks had turned visibly pink at his brother's appreciation.

“And surely you are familiar with Sherlock's skill set in all areas of clandestine activities,” Mycroft continued undeterred, keeping his attention on John and ignoring his brother. “Plus, his resourcefulness and cunning in the event of any contingencies – not unlikely to occur during undercover work – do not go amiss.” The self-satisfied smile returned. “Nevertheless, it so happens that... subordinates of mine around the world can be persuaded to support him with the practicalities: safe houses, fake IDs, communications, and all the messy cleaning-up afterwards, that kind of thing. Not many individuals on the government's payroll in this field of work are inclined to deny requests from someone with the surname 'Holmes'”. And he targeted yet another hapless biscuit.

“But... you can't!” John directed his words to Sherlock again. “Just look at you! You're injured, you've probably got infected wounds from what I can see from here... and you're malnourished... you're exhausted. I'm still your doctor, aren't I? And as your doctor I'm telling you that you need time to recover. A few days, a week, better two. In the army I wouldn't have cleared anybody fit for duty –”

“John, please! Must you be so difficult? It has to be me and it has to be _now_.”

“No! I won't allow it! You are in no condition to... Mycroft, you can't demand that! That's _insane!_ It would be sui...” John caught the word on the tip of his tongue. A steadying breath, a different angle. “When did you last have an uninterrupted sleep of at least six hours?” he asked of Sherlock.

“This morning. In my old room upstairs.”

John huffed angrily. Trust Sherlock to answer like a true scientist: absolutely accurate and utterly useless. “And before that?”

His friend hesitated. “Don't remember... exactly. I don't need _that_ much sleep, you know.” He shrugged dismissively. “Maybe a month ago?”

“See? This is not nearly enough, even by your standards. And you know it.” John very nearly threw up his hands in exasperation. Instead, he cleared his throat forcefully.

“You might want to remember that this is merely a pleasant talk over tea, Doctor,” Mycroft cautioned. “Please let me assure you that we went to great lengths to make Sherlock's stay here – albeit regrettably brief – as restful as possible.” He took a small sip. “Perhaps it would alleviate your concerns if I outlined it for you?”

“Go ahead.”

The allegedly minor government official delivered a concise report: Smuggled in from abroad under the cover of darkness in the small hours of the morning. Medical treatment. A good sleep in familiar surroundings. A decent hot meal, one of Sherlock's childhood favourites.

“You overcooked the pasta, though!” his brother complained at that point of the tale, “Mummy never overcooked the pasta.”

“That did not stop you from devouring it – and demanding a second helping,” retorted Mycroft. Sherlock huffed indignantly. John chuckled whilst the elder brother resumed his account. Extensive mission discussions, some leisure time. “... and then it was time to send Anthea to pick you up, as this was his most urgent request.” He let the last words hang in the air.

John took a long thoughtful mouthful of tea. _His most urgent request..._ He glanced over at Sherlock, who looked down at his feet, embarrassed.

“I suppose you would be interested in his medical file, John?” Mycroft offered, as an afterthought.

“Of course!” Sure as hell he wanted to know what he would have to deal with once Sherlock came home for good.

“Well then. You may expect a copy sent to your place posthaste.”

“Thanks.” John sighed. God, he felt knackered. A part of him wanted this meeting to be over, another part wanted it to last much much longer. “This last mission...” he began again, “can you tell me... where? Where are you going?”

The brothers exchanged a quick glance. “Serbia,” they answered in unison.

Serbia. That sounded – ominous. Like darkness and wilderness and wolves howling in the night. A cold fist of inexplicable dread clenched John's heart. Why couldn't it be Italy or Sweden?

“I'm coming with you,” he declared on impulse. “I can help you, support you. You know I can. We were always better together than apart. You know that, Sherlock. Certainly Mycroft can set something up...” He fell silent when he realised he was fighting a losing battle.

“I know that, John,” Sherlock shook his head mournfully, “ 'course I know you would come with me if possible. And I would... like to have you by my side. But you can't. You need to remain here in London. If you were gone too, Moriarty's minions would suspect something's amiss. And Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson...” He swallowed. “No, you're safer here. All three of you. I cannot have that safety compromised.” His eyes had grown flinty, his hands clenched into fists.

“Hence we require your support in a different manner,” the elder Holmes added firmly. “Now that you are aware of Sherlock's continued existence, it wouldn't do if you change your behaviour in a way that would raise suspicions. You understand that John, don't you? Any blatant indication –”

“Oh, I understand perfectly well,” scoffed John. “Me pretending to be still grieving for my friend? Whilst I actually worry myself sick about him? That's what you want me to do, eh? Shouldn't be too difficult. Not asking too much of my mediocre intelligence and sub-standard acting skills, is it?”

“Essentially yes,” Mycroft replied coolly, while his brother looked a tad ashamed. “To be honest, Doctor, I only acquiesced to Sherlock's demand to have this conversation on his assurance that you would comply. Lives hinge on your willingness and ability to proceed with your established patterns of attitude and habit throughout the near future. Abrupt changes in interactions must be avoided at all costs, and that notably includes your new girlfriend.”

John saw the man in the mirror flinch at the last words.

“I assumed you preferred it this way, John,” snapped Sherlock, “Rather to know and stay put than not know. Am I mistaken?”

“You expect me to sit tight on my arse while you're gone – throwing yourself in all kinds of trouble? Like some goddamned one-man-army in some rotten corner of the world? Then you'd better think twice, Sherlock Holmes!”

“Compose yourself, Dr. Watson!” Mycroft glared at him. “You keep losing your temper like this, and you make me question the wisdom of having you over in the first place. Despite my brother's adamant insistence.”

“Alright, alright,” John backed down, taking a deep breath. Admitting defeat. He ran his hand over the jumper on the armrest to calm his nerves. “My apologies.” He downed the last bit of his now lukewarm tea.

“I'm not,” the younger Holmes picked up the thread. “A one-man-army I mean. Mycroft's people...”

“... are well-positioned to assist in every way possible. It's quite tiresome really to have to repeat myself and emphasise that he will have every conceivable support.” Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. “At some point communication will no longer be feasible of course, but since Sherlock has succeeded in similar missions many times now I have no doubt –”

“I can pull it off John. It's not that much different. And you can help me. Just hang on a little while. Keep up the ruse. You can do that, can't you? For me. Please John! It won't be long now, I prom–”

“Don't!” John interrupted sharply. “No promise! Just come back soon, okay?” _And in one piece._

“Okay.” Sherlock nodded heavily and took a breath. “Six to eight weeks I reckon. Not long. Blink of an eye really. I'll be back before you notice I'm gone.” His false cheeriness faltered at the dark look on his friend's face. “Look, I know you are angry at me. And rightfully so. Just let me finish this ugly business, will you? And when I'm done we can go home and we can talk and I can tell you everything and you can shout at me all you want. And we make things better again, alright?”

 _If it only were so easy_. Going home? With Sherlock, to Baker Street? That would be... “We can't go home. I don't live there anymore.” A big lump of homesickness made John's voice small and dull.

Sherlock shot his brother a puzzled glance. “But I thought...”

“And you thought correctly, brother mine. Don't worry! That dingy little flat you hold so dear will await you.”

“It will?” John's head jerked up. “You still lease it?” Joy filled his belly like hot tea.

“Naturally,” Mycroft confirmed pompously. “Your landlady was rather loathe to let it to anybody else. She also would like to see you around, John, by the way. Any time.”

Of course he had kept the flat. He knew Sherlock would return some day and want it back.

As John lifted his gaze back to the mirror he found Sherlock's eyes waiting there for him. A timid smile ventured onto his friend's face, which John couldn't help returning. An unspoken promise in both their eyes, a silent agreement, a sliver of shared hope, the prospect of a future together.

 _Soon_ , a pair of opals assured, _I'll come home soon_.

 _I'll be here_ , slate-blue twin ponds responded, _I'll wait for you_.

Sherlock suddenly wrinkled his nose and moved an index finger across his upper lip. “But that has to go, of course,” he announced disgustedly, “it's hideous.”

“The moustache? Oh.” John chuckled. “Well...”

A comfortable silence fell, the late afternoon shadows growing deeper. _This is what he came here for_ , John realised. This hazardous one-day stopover was not only about being cared for and feeling safe for a few hours. It was about this meeting, seeing each other, talking in person. His most urgent request. Reveal, apologise, explain, find a new understanding. Reach out for a little bit of solace and reassurance. Pluck up courage. Brace himself for whatever hardship lay ahead of him, for fear and pain and loneliness. And if that was what his best friend needed from him now, John Watson would make damned sure he'd have it. No doubt all the dark _things_ were still there somewhere, raging through the dungeons of his heart. Hurt and anger, feeling abandoned, betrayed, not being trusted, tossed aside like a rag doll. And they would get to him later, for sure. But now was not the time to dwell upon that, now his friend needed him. So be it. John squared his shoulders and sat up straighter not breaking eye contact. _Take your fill of me then, Sherlock Holmes!_

Like they had done countless times before, they let their gazes lock tuning out the world around them. This was them, and only them, together.

Sinking into each other, drowning in the comfort of familiar eyes.

Diving deep, drifting, swirling.

Floating, sailing, soaring, flying high. The ocean and the sky.

No space, no time, no boundaries. No words – none needed.

A soft metallic click and a polite cough some immeasurable time later. “As much as I regret it...” Mycroft drawled, whilst closing his pocket watch, “... our time together must come to an end.”

 _No! Not yet!_ John wanted to object, and in the mirror he saw the same protest in Sherlock's eyes. But it would not help. It would hurt like hell to leave the room, no matter when it happened.

“Since you have an appointment this evening, John,” the elder brother carried on, studying his fingernails intensely, “I took the liberty to arrange for your ride home. You needn't worry you will be late for your date.”

 _Wait! How does he know that? – Well, never mind. “_ Um, thanks, I think.” John sighed deeply. No use in postponing the inevitable. Time to be a soldier again. “Well then...” He rose and grabbed his jumper from the armrest. A ball of leaden sorrow filled his chest as he turned and faced Sherlock directly. His friend's eyes were blown wide now and brimming with tears. His nostrils flared and he was breathing very carefully, stealing himself for the moment to come.

Mycroft stood, too, and moved towards the door. “We shall see each other shortly, I suppose.”

“Thank you very much for the tea, Mycroft. It was really... something.” Although his words were addressed to his host, John's eyes did not leave his best friend's face. His legs threatened to give way as he slowly walked over.

A few steps away from the door, he paused briefly. “The nights in Serbia are rather cool this time of year, I hear,” and he tossed the jumper towards the man in the corner. Long fingers reached out and grabbed it in mid-air.

Two more hesitating steps. “Be safe, Sherlock!” said a thick voice John hardly recognised as his own. The fingertips of his left hand brushed gently over a stubbled damp cheek. _Be safe!_

“Be safe, John!” Sherlock's voice equally husky and quivering.

The last thing John saw before he left the room were wide brilliant eyes, trembling lips, one hand clutching a woollen mass tightly to a skinny chest, the other one touching the cheek where his own hand had been seconds ago.

The last thing he heard when he crossed the threshold was the thud of bony knees hitting the floorboards and a muffled sound like a sob.

Outside the house, John took a moment to gather himself. The sky had grown considerably darker during his stay and the wind had freshened. He shivered, aware that it was not just due to his missing jumper.

Alright. One step at a time. John had a date to attend this evening, nevertheless. _Don't act any different. Nothing has changed in the past couple of hours. Tomorrow it will be t_ _wenty-one months, two weeks and six days,_ _still twenty-two next Friday._

His gaze fell on the bushes in Mycroft's front garden. _Six to eight weeks from now... they will be in full bloom by then. I wonder what colour they are._

He hunched against the chill and strode over to the black car at the kerb, with let's-just-call-her-Anthea waiting in front of it.

Though maybe he would shave off the moustache tomorrow.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much for reading! :)
> 
> If you like my story please leave a kudos or a comment. Your feedback and constructive criticism is always very welcome. :)  
> Let me know which parts you like and what didn't work for you. Please help me to become a better writer!
> 
> I am contemplating writing a sequel to this. Would you like to read that? Please let me know in the comments!
> 
> All the best! ♥ ♥ ♥
> 
> **History:**  
>  2017-06-02: Posted chapter 1 including cover image  
> 2017-06-12: Posted chapter 2  
> 2017-06-18: Added illustration for chapter 2  
> 2017-06-28: Posted chapter 3


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